There is something wrong with me, although you wouldn’t know it at first.
I was high as a kite and drunk that night. My foot pressed hard to the floor so that the white lines of the road blurred and whirled away past me into the night. I gripped so hard to the wheel that my fingers ached, throwing the car into the corners so that the tyres screeched desperately, trying to hold fast to the road. She never stood a chance, and neither did I. I had only the briefest impression of her, eyes and mouth wide open O’s of terror, skin white as snow in my headlights, her black hair flowing into the wind and rain. The sound surprised me. Like a coke can thrown into a wall, a dense thick sound of metal and water. My windscreen crazed, sending thick bolts of frosted lightning out from the spot where her forehead kissed the glass, and I slammed on the brakes. The car spun round in the road and my body hung heavily against the belt for a terrifying second. The enormous forces hurled me sideways, then dropped me and I rolled back, dazed into my seat.